


Masterpiece Theatre III

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Series: Masterpiece Theatre [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Really don't know how to tag it, Smut, Sweet and soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: They finally come home.





	

_I’ve been here so very long and I could slip into you. It’s so easy to come back into you. I’ll hide it. Could I hide in you awhile?_

It took an agonizing nine days for John to recover enough to leave the hospital. Sherlock spent all nine of them by his side, not being swayed to move even an inch for any purpose. When the plastic chair got to be too uncomfortable and the distance of two feet between their bodies felt like two thousand miles, Sherlock would carefully maneuver himself into the small hospital bed and curl himself around John, protective. 

John would wrap his arms around his waist and run his hands up his back, “It’s alright, love. I’m alright. We’re alright. Sh, sh, sh.” His words were soft and insistent, and stuck to the back of Sherlock’s brain, but there was always something more that scared him. Sometimes the overwhelming contempt would flow from his mouth before he could stop it.

“I hate you so much for this. You left me to grieve and it was the worst experience of my life. I know it’s not fair to say because I did the same to you for longer, but I still hate you for this.” Then his throat would constrict and the tears would come and he would find his head buried in John’s neck, John’s hand in his hair.

“Sh, I know. It’s alright, love. I’ll fix this, I promise. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.” He would whisper the same incantation over and over every night until they both fell asleep clinging to each other, breathing each other in like oxygen.

When they finally got John home, Sherlock knew exactly what he needed, and what John needed as well. As soon as the door was closed, John had grasped his lapels, and he had crowded John against the door. The kiss was full of teeth and tongues, biting and sucking, _desperate_ in every sense of the word. When they pulled back for air, John whispered against Sherlock’s neck, “I thought of you every fucking second. I need you to know that. It was all for you. All for us. You have to know that.” 

“I do, John, I do. God, I didn’t mean what I said in the hospital. I love you more than the sun. I love you more than life. I love you more than the air I breathe because you _are_ the air I breathe. I haven’t drawn a proper breath until this exact minute. Please, John.” Sherlock was hesitant as he lightly ground his still growing erection into John’s hip, unsure if it would be welcome.

“Fuck, sweetheart, of course. Whatever you want, Sherlock, whatever you want.”

So Sherlock pulled the two of them away from the door and down the hall to their room, holding on tight to John’s hand for comfort, their fingers entwined. When they reached the sanctity of the room, John’s reverent hands were on Sherlock’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the pale skin beneath. He caught sight of the scar from the bullet Mary put in him, and Sherlock saw rage flash behind John’s eyes. He placed his palm over it, his fingers curving around Sherlock’s side, and hissed.

Sherlock his own hand over John’s and gripped his chin with the other, making their eyes meet, “It’s alright, my love. She doesn’t own us anymore. She’s gone. She is no longer a part of this equation. It’s alright, John.”

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and settled a hand on his lower back, pulling him closer, “That scar is mine now. I own it and every single other one on your body because they’re all there because of me. You have been marred because of me, and I'm taking all responsibility for it.” John clung tighter to Sherlock and moved them the bed, leaving Sherlock’s shirt on the floor in their wake. 

“Sherlock…” he whispered as he straddled John's hips. 

“Am I hurting you?” Sherlock asked, wrapping his arms around John's neck. John shook his head and leaned forward and kissed across his pectorals, his lips connecting to the scar as they passed. “John…” he gasped, linking his fingers through John's hair. 

“You're wearing far too much clothing, love.” John whispered, lips ghosting along Sherlock's collarbone. 

Sherlock rose and began removing his trousers, eyes locked with John, “You know, I could say entirely the same thing about you, John.” He moved forward, pants still on, and pulled on the hem of John's jumper. Suddenly, he turned hesitant. 

John cocked his head to the side, “What is it, love?”

Sherlock swallowed, “I'm afraid of what I'm going to find, John. What if you have scars because of me?” He felt his eyes fill with tears, and John's hand on the side of his face. 

“I don't have any scars you haven't seen, love. I promise. And I will not let you take the blame for the one that will be on my thigh. That's on her. It's alright, love. Go on.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled the jumper over John's head, tossing it to the floor. And finally, finally, he felt home. He leaned forward, attaching his lips to the starburst of scar tissue on John's shoulder. John's hands were his hips, and Sherlock ground down against his groin, steadily moving until he felt John wince. “John? Alright?”

John inhales. Exhales. “Just scared me a bit, sweetheart, I'm alright. Though I have an idea. Stand up for me?” Sherlock did and John repositioned himself at the headboard leaning against the pillows. “Now how about you do something about these trousers, hm?”

So Sherlock did. He undid John’s flies and took his pants and trousers off, adding them to the growing pile of clothes on the floor. John’s cock stood at attention, brushing his stomach. Sherlock ran his hands along John’s pelvis and raked his eyes over him, “God, how I missed you. So much more than you’ll ever know.” He raised himself up onto his knees and carefully removed his pants before carefully straddling John’s hips again, “Alright?” 

John nodded and placed one hand on Sherlock’s hip and the other around their cocks, jerking them off slowly. Sherlock placed his hands on John’s shoulders and held on for dear life. He knew John would teasingly slow for long minutes just to savor it, but Sherlock had half a mind to just tell him to do it. He needed this more than anything. He craved John Watson more than he’s ever craved any drug in his life. And this man below him could break him into a million pieces without even trying. And he would let him.

Sherlock felt tears drip down his cheeks and land on John’s chest. His voice was choked as he spoke, “You could destroy me if you wanted to, John Watson. In a goddamn heartbeat.” John’s eyes snapped up to his and his left hand came up to cup his cheek, wiping away the tears, before pulling it to his shoulder.

“I would never.” His stroking didn’t stop as he spoke, but increased in rhythm, “Never in a million years would I destroy you, nor will I let anyone else. You are mine, Sherlock Holmes, and I will protect you until my final breath.” It narrowly slipped passed Sherlock’s mind that John had released his own cock and was only stroking Sherlock. He was blissed out and panting into John’s shoulder when John removed Sherlock from his shoulder and placed their foreheads together, “Look at me, sweetheart,” he whispered, breath ghosting across Sherlock’s lips.

With insurmountable effort, Sherlock opened his eyes and lost himself in John’s. He shivered at the intensity of it all and took a shuddering breath, one the very cusp of orgasm. John gave him a half smile, “I’ve got you, gorgeous. Come for me.” And Sherlock did. His eyes rolled back into his skull, he tensed and shook, and opened his mouth, a silent cry of John’s name playing on his lips. It felt like his soul left his body as he collapsed into John, hearing a _beautiful_ fall from his lover’s lips. He was also dimly aware of John’s own come painting his skin.

When Sherlock came too, he was curled around John, sated and, somehow, clean. He gripped John tighter, twined their legs together, and nuzzled into his chest. John chuckled and kissed his head, fingers twining in his hair, “Hey, you. You back with me?”

Sherlock nodded and kissed John’s chest lightly, lingering, “Christ I missed you.” Sherlock whispered, reverent, “Please, John, don’t ever leave me again. I couldn’t bear it. And if you have to go somewhere, take me with you. I don’t want to let you out of my sight ever again.”

John laughed and kissed forehead again, “Whatever you say, love. Whatever you say.” And it ended on that. The two of them wrapped in each other’s arms, holding close what they never wanted to let go of. 

_It’s so easy to come back into you._


End file.
